Page 48 of Oliver
I followed her gaze, genuinely smiling now. "You two are good together."
"I know," she said simply, with no false modesty. Then her expression turned serious. "Hey, about Ryan..."
My stomach clenched. "What about him?"
"I don't like the way he keeps looking at you." She bit her lip, seeming more sober than I’d seen her since we got to Norman. "It gives me the creeps, Zazi. I told Darryl to keep an eye on him, but still…"
"It's fine." I waved her off dismissively, not wanting her to busy herself with my problems during her big event, though the fact that outsiders were starting to notice meant Ryan was spiraling, maybe deeper than I realized, and that made him even more dangerous. "Ancient history."
"Is it?" Her dark eyes searched my face. "Because it doesn't seem fine. And Oliver...” She let out a deep sigh. “Whenever Ryan gets too close to you, he becomes so intense."
“Oliver is kind of an intense guy, Pari. Always has been.”
“Yeah, no, I know.” Her eyes found mine, hand cupping my shoulder as if to say she needed me to listen carefully to whatever her next words were. “But this is a different kind of intense, Zahra. A scary kind of intense. The kind that makes me wonder what a mild-natured guy like Oliver knows about Ryan that makes him that mad.”
My pulse raced. This was the last thing I needed, the truth about mine and Ryan’s twisted and toxic relationship to explode at my make-or-break event.
I glanced around the crowded bar, automatically locating Oliver near the dartboard. He looked perfectly at ease except for how his gaze flicked to me every thirty seconds like clockwork. Each time Ryan drifted closer to where I stood with Parisa and the bridesmaids, Oliver appeared as if conjured by some protective instinct. He moved through the crowd like my shadow, making it look natural—getting fresh drinks, joining a conversation with Darryl's cousins, even dancing with one of the bridesmaids. But I noticed the pattern. His position always, without fail, placed him between me and Ryan.
"Oliver and Ryan have bad blood that has nothing to do with me,” I said, hoping the partial truth would be enough to placate Parisa. “As for the rest, he's just looking out for me. He’s worried I work too hard, and that I’m not taking care of myself.”
"So, hedoestake care of you, huh?" Parisa's inuendo-filled smirk made me shift uncomfortably. "And the way he watches you..." She fanned herself dramatically. "God, Zazi, he's so in love with you it's almost embarrassing to watch."
Heat rose to my cheeks. "It’s too early in the relationship," I muttered into my drink, guilt twisting in my stomach at the deception.
"Oh, please." Parisa rolled her eyes. "He looks at you like you're the center of his universe."
Someone must have been listening to my desperate prayers, because at the exact moment Parisa opened her mouth to continue tormenting me, several bridesmaids swarmed us with shots.
"Did Parisa tell you about the time she got us locked in our elementary school overnight?" I asked loudly over the music.
“Me?!” Parisa guffawed, then launched into the familiar childhood tale. I felt myself relax slightly. This was normal. This was safe. Bonding, nostalgic stories, celebrating her upcoming nuptials.
Ryan's laughter cut through the moment again, closer this time. I tensed, eyes automatically tracking the sound to find him at the bar, just fifteen feet away, surrounded by Darryl's fraternity brothers. His jokes were getting cruder, his gestures more exaggerated—signs I recognized all too well. He was getting drunk, which made him unpredictable.
As if sensing my unease, I felt a warm presence at my back. Oliver. Not touching me, but close enough that I could feel his body heat, and smell the subtle notes of his cologne over the bar's blend of beer and sweat.
"Ladies," he greeted the group, easy charm in place. "Mind if I steal my girlfriend for a dance?"
His hand extended toward me, an invitation rather than a demand. I took it without hesitation, grateful for the excuse to move away from Ryan's vicinity.
"Thank you," I murmured as he led me to the dance floor, where the DJ had switched to a slower song.
His palm found my waist, the weight of it grounding, steady—a quiet anchor in a sea of chaos. My breath hitched, but not in fear.
"I've got you," he murmured, his lips barely moving, like it was a truth, not just reassurance.
The song wasn't quite slow enough for a true slow dance, but not fast enough for anything energetic. Oliver moved with surprising grace, guiding me in small circles. His body was solid, reliable.
"You're good at this," I said, surprised.
A small smile played at his lips. "Basic physics. Rhythmic movement in a defined space."
"Did you just reduce dancing to a science problem?"
"Didn't I mention?" His smile widened, eyes crinkling behind his glasses. "I was briefly part of the MIT ballroom dance team."
I missed a step, caught off guard. "Seriously?"
